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i LARK WENT SINGING 
AND OTHER POEMS 



RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING 



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Book.. 



Copyright ]»J?_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 



A LARK WENT SINGING 
AND OTHER POEMS 



A LARK WENT SINGING 
AND OTHER POEMS 



RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING ^^sSi-v. 



With an Introduction 

BY 

RICHARD BURTON 




EDMUND D. BROOKS 

MINNEAPOLIS 

1916 



7 ^--"^ #3 






Copyright 1916 by 
RUTH GUTHRIE HARDING 



,, DEC i 1 1316 

©C1,A45301S 



For their courtesy in permitting me to 
reprint many of the *poems in this book, I 
thank the editors of The Bellman, Lippin- 
cotfs. Smart Set, The Poetry Journal, Poet- 
ry, A Magazine of Verse, The Caledonian, 
The Boston Transcript, The Saturday 
Evening Post, New Fiction, Neale's^ and 
other magazines. I wish also to acknowl- 
edge here the many kindnesses of Mr. Wil- 
liam Stanley Braithwaite. 



©0 ^ttljarb ^urtctt 



INTRODUCTION 

THOSE who read American 
verse with an eye to quality, 
and recognize it in current 
writers, will not have been un- 
mindful of the name of Ruth 
Guthrie Harding. A lyric now 
and then in the magazines, after- 
wards perhaps to be garnered in 
an anthology, will have arrested 
attention and imparted the pleas- 
ure that comes when the sense of 
poetry is quickened by a new claim- 
ant on the Muse. 

Mrs. Harding's work is quite 
removed from the fashion of the 
hour: it utterly lacks strain and 
strut, it makes no bid for favor by 
the use of the grotesque, the super- 
subtle, the coarsely realistic or the 
stormily individualistic and prot- 
estant. It brings us back, contrar- 

[ 9 ] 



iwise, in the simplest, most unob- 
trusive way, to that older yet ever- 
young appeal of Beauty which has 
a twin face, because it is both es- 
thetic and spiritual. It is for this 
reason that the pieces printed in 
the following fascicle of poems, so 
slender in amount, so unassuming 
in tone, possess, it seems to me, the 
characteristics of genuine song: 
since they embody art, imagina- 
tion, aspiration, and the gift of 
happy, singing words. Not afraid 
that the wings of flight shall be 
clipped by the restraint of law, 
such self-respecting work accepts 
the nobler traditions of the ars 
poetica^ as if in consonance with 
Goethe's declaration that it is only 
within the strait confines of art that 
the artist finds his true freedom. 

The gravamen of the charge that 
to do this means a slavish obeyance 
of the past, and a consequent fail- 
ure to represent the present, loses 
its weight in the answer that every- 
thing of value in art looks to the 

[ 10 ] 



past. In art, a personal hallmark 
set upon a general human experi- 
ence; voila toutl The old becomes 
the new again; or better, there is 
neither new nor old, but only the 
true, the good and the beautiful. 

What has been called "the lyric 
cry'' is markedly present in this 
volume of verse. It is small won- 
der that Mr. O'Brien in The Bos- 
ton Transcript should refer to the 
"lyric magic" of this versewoman ; 
indeed, there is in her writing at 
times a stroke of tone color, a lilt, a 
cadence, a turn of phrase which, 
one hardly knows how, unite chem- 
ically in effects which startle with 
their felicity. The rhythmic sense 
is strong and of varied accomplish- 
ment; the range is remarkable in 
this respect. Mark the emotional 
sequences, the retardations and res- 
olutions of "Threnody" : 

How still a grave can be. 
Wrapt in the tender starlight, far 
from the moaning sea . . . 

[ 11 ] 



For never a road can take me be- 
yond the wind and foam, 

And never a road can reach him 
who lies so far from home. 

A wonderful gamut is run in 
such a lyric. 

In what contrast is the vernal 
trochaic measure of ^^Returning": 

There's a thrill of other spring- 
times in the country soul of me! 

And in an entirely different way, 
listen to the leap of the mingled 
anapests and dactyls of "Last Song 
of Apollo": 

To me she is sunlight and shadow, 
star-sweetness and rain. 

"Grotesque" is another rich ex- 
ample of musical inventiveness; it 
is no excess of language so to call it. 
And once again, what a feeling for 
marching time and the lure of jig 
beats through the superb little 
"Call to a Scot!" 

"Delhi" is yet another poem 
where the freedom of handling 

[ 12 ] 



suggests mastery: that artistic ir- 
regularity of metre which is so 
superior to the customary jog 
trot of conventional verse. Such 
achievements, the gentle triumphs 
of poetic art which are likely to be 
noted by the few if at all, remind 
us that in all poetry that is truly 
such, movement must be the close- 
fitting garment of mood and mean- 
ing. 

Nor can the emotional value of 
the work, with music as one of its 
by products, be overlooked by any 
poetry lover. Mrs. Harding's tes- 
tament of song quivers with a feel- 
ing that gives it intensity and tonal 
texture. It has in it a kind of 
psychic tremble. But this is held 
in leash of art, restrained by taste; 
there is nothing in it of the unreg- 
ulated sentiment which passes over 
into sentimentality; it recognizes 
instinctively that in reserve is a cit- 
adel of strength. There is a shy, 
Celtic wistfulness, an impulse of 
withdrawal in this expression of 

[ 13 ] 



the deeper things ; delicacy and in- 
direction are like diaphanous veils 
that enhance the loveliness within. 
Again and again in this fragrant 
little collection is sounded a lovely 
spiritual note; well illustrated in 
the several mother poems, with 
their uplifted adoration that is yet 
earth-warm and human: 

We mothers with our stain of earth, 
Marring the sanctity of birth. 

How inevitably said that is and 
how it rings deep changes on the 
motif of motherhood, summing up 
in its simple way the whole mighty 
saga of woman! Nor is the throb 
in the message without mystic 
touches that suggest, to me for one, 
a fellowship with A. E., W. B. 
Yeats, and Housman of "Shrop- 
shire Lad" fame. It occurs in "To 
an Ambrotype," and is recurrent in 
"Etching after Daubigny," "The 
Wind on the Hilltop," "The Gyp- 
sy Stars are Camped," and "When 
I am Dead." 

[14] 



There is much profit in this, since 
it makes for atmosphere, evocation 
and overtones which do not so 
much define as suggest, hinting 
with half lights rather than stating 
facts at high noon. Such song is 
above all connotative. And it is 
this quality that gives a haunting 
potency to the love motives in the 
book; ^^Sanctuary," ^^In a for- 
gotten Burying-ground," ^'Argen- 
teuil," "Surrender," to mention 
but a few. 

Yet this tendency in Mrs. Hard- 
ing's utterance might lead to over- 
tension and vagueness; undoubted- 
ly a danger in the feeling for and 
rendering of these exquisite, elu- 
sive states of the subjective mind. 
But this is avoided because of an- 
other trait: breadth, sweep and 
vigor are secured by the warm vi- 
bration of her interest in humani- 
ty; a flower of social sympathy 
which roots in the good, red soil of 
reality. This social note is pres- 
ent, although it is less insistently 

[ 15 ] 



struck than with other of our 
younger singers ; and seems for that 
very reason to escape the appear- 
ance of mannerism. One has only 
to read ''At the Old Ladies' Home" 
and ''Vignette" to see how true this 
is; and, in the homely folk vein "I 
SeeM Ye Aince." 

But what of the subject matter 
of such poetry, do you ask? What 
of its substance as well as its form 
and spirit? Surely, enough has 
been implied in enumerating the 
qualities it contains. In the light 
of them, the question of message is 
nugatory; where are charm, dis- 
tinction, personality, it is sufficient; 
Beauty being its own best excuse. 
But if answer one must, let it be 
said that this verse is about the old, 
simple, dewy-fresh, eternal things; 
about love and loss, sorrow and 
truth, tender joy in the call and 
consolation of Nature, and faith 
in the divine that pulsates through 
the dust of day. In a sentence, it 
is about life and the ceasing from 

[16] 



life, here and hereafter, with all its 
hope and heartbreak. Life is 
seized at the center, warmed by the 
emotions, made high with spiritual 
meanings, and then shaped for our 
pleasure because it comes to us by 
way of music and imagination. 

To the present critic it would 
appear worth while to bring us 
poetry which does thus transmute 
the individual experience into the 
experience of all: since all partake 
of these elemental pains and priv- 
ileges of living. And especially is 
this so now, when bards do not lack 
who can be relied upon to mouth 
and posture and find great joy in 
motives like the steam Calliope and 
the shambles on a hot day. The 
*'one, clear call" of the song speech 
in the following pages is of another 
sort; a sort that is welcome at a 
time when vagaries are vainglori- 
ous and the honk of the automobile 
drowns out the still small voice that 
is even now flute-clear and flute- 
sweet, if we will but heed. Song 

[ 17 ] 



of this other sort is modern be- 
cause it is human, and the human 
knows no date ; it savors of the old 
only because the old is human too; 
it is poetry of the future because it 
will be here in the final battle 
called Armegeddon and in the 
final peace which is Eden come 
again. Silly chatter about schools 
and forms and manners will make 
a little brief stir, a little din in our 
ears ; but real Poetry will be ever 
about its business of stabbing us 
awake with Beauty and making the 
good, lovely. For of such is the 
very kingdom of song. 

In this modest book, "A Lark 
Went Singing," there will be un- 
feigned delight for all who still 
desire Poetry, not for the exploita- 
tion of creed or mode or personal- 
ity — but for its own sweet sake. 
Richard Burton 



[ 18 ] 



CONTENTS 



Introduction . . . . 
In a forgotten Burying-ground 
Threnody .... 
A Mecca Rug 
Returning .... 
The Madonna of the Car- 
penter-shop 
To an Ambrotype 
Last Song of Apollo . 
Song for a Stroller . 
Grotesque .... 

Song 

From a Car-window . 
The Call to a Scot , 
Etching after Daubigny . 
Of a Youth Passing . 
Delhi 

[ 19 ] 



9 
23 
24 

25 
27 

29 

31 
33 

35 
37 
39 
40 

41 
43 
45 
47 



Lullaby 49 

Christ, Who lay in Mary's 

Arms 51 

To A Child 52 

The Wind on the Hill-top . 54 

For a 'Cello Melody ... 55 

At the Old Ladies' Home . . 56 

Argentuil 60 

A Persian Grave ... 62 

Salute 64 

At Beni-mora ... * 65 
For the Fly-leaf of a Volume 

OF Keats 66 

Fragment 67 

Save in His Own Country . 68 

Fiat Lux 69 

The Gypsy Stars are Camped . 71 

Surrender 73 

Afterward 74 

1 see'd Ye Aince ... 75 
I HEARD Her Whisper . . 76 

Sanctuary 77 

When I am Dead ... 78 

[ 20 ] 



Again is it April . 

Vignette 

Daffodils . 

Triolet 

A Lark went Singing 



79 
8i 

84 
85 
86 



[21 ] 



IN A FORGOTTEN BURY- 
ING-GROUND 

Eternal in the brooding of the old 
Norwegian spruces 
I hear the wistful tenderness of 
loves They used to know, 
And in the swelling wood-notes that 
the eager springtide looses 
Sobs again Their heart-break 
from the Springs of Long 
Ago: 

And sometime, through the si- 
lence, with the April shad- 
ows lying 
Aslant the solemn acre where I 
take my dreamless rest. 
Perhaps the stifled need of You 
my heart was ever crying 
Will find its way across the years 
— to stir a stranger's breast! 



[ 23 ] 



THRENODY 

There's a grass-grown road from 

the valley — 
A winding road and steep — 
That leads to the quiet hill-top, 

where lies your love asleep. . • 
While mine is lying, God knows 

where, a hundred fathoms deep. 

I saw you kneel at a grave-side — 

How still a grave can be, 

Wrapt in the tender starlight, far 
from the moaning sea! 

But through all dreams and star- 
light, the breakers call to me. 

Oh, steep is your way to Silence — 
But steeper the ways I roam. 
For never a road can take me be- 
yond the wind and foam, 
And never a road can reach him 
who lies so far from home. 



[24] 



A MECCA RUG 

Worn old carpet with colors rare, 

Didst think it sacrilege 
That late tonight in the shadows 

there 
One held me close and kissed my 

hair? 
A breath that stirred in the languid 
air 
Rose from thy faded edge. 

A chant from the mosque by the 
inland sea 

Was heavy in my ears : 
There came some dusky memory. . . 
When I was I in Araby, 
Long, long ago I fashioned thee. 

Scroll of a Thousand Years. 

A temple-rug, with the niche for 
prayer 
That my lord's dark knees oft 
pressed: 

[25 ] 



The shield, the comb, and the cres- 
cent there 
Are symbols his tribe was wont to 



wear; 



Mine the weaving? — Then mine 
the prayer . . . 
May Allah guard his rest! 

A chant from the mosque by the 
inland sea. 
And the smart of forgotten tears. 
Dost know what tonight's new love 

maybe? 
Perchance it will all be clear to me 
When I shall be I in Araby 
At the end of a thousand years! 



[26] 



RETURNING 

Never sings a city-robin on the 
gray-stone window-ledges 
But I dream the long, cool mead- 
ows where the yellow cowslips 
be; 

To his call I guess an answer from 
the grass and tangled hedges — 
There's a thrill of other spring- 
times in the country soul of 
me! 

Never falls light rain above me but 

I hear its gentle patter 
On a lonely roof at even, as I 

heard it years ago ; 
Through the music, warmth, and 

fragrance, past the sound of 

careless chatter. 
Throbs the silence of far places 

where the pines and -birches 

grow. 

[27] 



I shall see a few more spring-times, 
then shall heed no answer lilt- 
ed 
To that first full-throated robin, 
hear no rain above my head. . . 

Give me, God, the meadow-blos- 
soms when my formal wreaths 
have wilted — 
Let me lie till Thine Own 
Springtime with the pines be- 
side my bed! 



[ 28 ] 



^THE MADONNA OF THE 
CARPENTER-SHOP" 

( Dagnan-Bouveret) 

O Mary, in thy clear young eyes 
What sorrow came at His first 

cry? 
What hint of how He was to die 
Disturbed thee in the calm sun- 
rise. . . 
What shadow from the paling sky 
Did fall across thy Paradise? 

Dream'st thou the Garden, and the 
Tree? 
Knew they were for the little 

child 
Whose lips against thy warm 

breast smiled? 
So sweet, that body close to thee. 
By men's rough hands to be defiled ; 
So frail . . . yet waiting Calvary 1 

[ 29 ] 



Ah, once I too lay spent and wan, 
A tiny head against my heart, 
And had my vision of the part 
A child must play when years had 
gone — 
And then I felt the quick tears 
start, 
Remembering Jesus in the dawn. 

O Mary, mother without guile, 
We mothers with the stain of 

earth 
Marring the sanctity of birth. 
See heaven in thy baby's smile, 
And, sinning, know the holy 
worth 
Of what thou, sinless, dream'st 
that while. 



[ 30 ] 



TO AN AMBROTYPE 

From out thy Silence, wilt thou 
hearken here 
And let me feel thy touch upon 

my brow? 
More than pale drifting dust art 
to me now, 
Woman I never knew, gone many 
a year. . , 

And more than fleeting dream my 
face must be. 
Where thou art lying in thy 

quiet bed ; 
Because I too would pillow his 
tired head — 
I too have prayed . . . and would 
keep faith with thee. 

Thou who didst make him, see, the 
light is dim 
Across the doubtful path we two 
have trod : 

[ 31 ] 



Yet would I trust thee, face to 
face with God, 
To ask, 'Without her, were it well 
with himT^ 

For, when at last I shall be com- 
forted 
Within the Dark that long hath 

covered thee. 
And God shall pass, thou wilt re- 
member me 
As one who loved thee well though 
thou wert dead. 



[ 32 J 



LAST SONG OF APOLLO 

Today I have fled from the Moun- 
tain; and never again 

As a god shall I roam by the foun- 
tain or sing in the glen. 

The new gods be mute, if they 
heard me ; nor glory nor fire 

Hath leapt from my music and 
stirred me, so broken my lyre. 

I cried to Latona who bore me — 
she answered me not: 

Diana hath perished before me, 
and dark is the spot 

Where silent the laurel-maid 
broodeth, forgiving but cold — 

O Clyticj once so forsaken^ . . . 
dost weep as of old? 

Green Daphne I left in the mead- 
ow, unmoved of my pain. 

To me she is sunlight and shadow, 
star-sweetness and rain: 

[ 33 ] 



(But all through the years when I 
loved her, who never loved me, 

Such, then, was the pain my for- 
getting had meted to thee?) 

I could not remember thee only, 
with her at my side — 

Yet I might have pitied thee lone- 
ly, and made for thy pride 

Brief kindness, to spare thee thy 
sighing; or wreaths for thy 
brow. . . 

O Clyti'e, Clytie^ Clytie, where art 
thou now? 



[ 34 ] 



SONG FOR A STROLLER 

Talents, you say, were lent for my 
using, 
"Thrown to the four winds, lost 
in a day" — 
A song on the highroad was more 
my choosing. 
And smell o' the pine-woods 
along my way. 

Friend I've none, nor sweetheart to 
love me. 
Roof nor fireside, books nor 
kin — 
Only the tall trees bending above 
me, . . 
A boy's clear dreams when the 
stars shine in! 

Sun and rain in the silent places. . . 
What for me where my talents 
lie? 

[ 35] 



Men might praise me, but in their 
faces 
I read unrest as I wander by; 

Women might smile — but ah, I've 
tasted 
The rose-red dawn and the even- 
ing mist! 
What care I for a full cup wasted, 
What care I for those lips un- 
kissed? 

Fame, good folk, had but proved a 

tasking, 

Love is a blessing hard to keep — 

A road to follow is all I'm asking. 

And, at the last, a long, long 

sleep ! 



[ 36 ] 



GROTESQUE 

With the first light on the skyline 
came the rapping of the sickles 
And the brown arms of the reap- 
ers bent to toil another morn; 
Close beside me in the glimmer, in 
the golden sweep and shim- 
mer, 
Knelt a reaper strange among us, 
crooning through the ragged 
corn: 

"Born of sorrow. 
Gone tomorrow — 
Gone to lie in yonder valley where 
their fathers long have lain; 
Men who know not ship nor sa- 
bre, 
Each but drudges by his neigh- 
bor. 
And the fields wherein they labor 
are a heritage of pain!" 

[ 37 ] 



Sleep was heavy on our eye-lids 
when a lone star followed sun- 
set, 
But we missed the pale young 
stranger, none knew whither 
he had gone — 
Then, from where the dead are ly- 
ing, with the night-wind's ten- 
der sighing 
Rose and fell a last low cadence 
of the voice we heard at dawn : 
^ Weary reapers. 
Early sleepers — 
Brief the glow that drifts across 
them from the waning August 
moon: 
These that rest beyond its gleam- 
ing 
Lie unvexed of drift or dream- 
ing, 
And the fields with harvest teem- 
ing have forgot them all too 
soon!'^ 



[ 38 ] 



SONG 

FORJ. L. T. 

O shadows past the candle-gleam, 

so brief to pause in flight, 
Are shadows that can come no more 
Still moving unseen on the door 
Of Yesternight? 

O roses on the crumbling wall, so 

soon to droop and die, 
Are any roses that are dead 
Still fragrant where their petals 

bled 
In Junes gone by? 

O heart of mine, there is a face nor 

grief nor prayer can bring. • . 
Think you in some far Shadow- 
land 
One keeps my roses in his hand. 
Remembering? 



[39] 



FROM A CAR-WINDOW 

Pines, and a blur of lithe young 
grasses ; 
Gold in a pool, from the western 
glow; 
Spread of wings where the last 
thrush passes — 
And thoughts of you as the sun 
dips low. 

Quiet lane, and an irised mead- 
ow. . . 
(How many summers have died 
since then?) 
I wish you knew how the deepen- 
ing shadow 
Lies on the blue and green 
again! 

Dusk, and the curve of field and 
hollow 
Etched in gray when a star ap- 
pears: 
Sunset, . . . twilight, . . . and dark 
to follow, . . . 
And thoughts of you through a 
mist of tears. 

[ 40] 



THE CALL TO A SCOT 

There came an ancient man and 
slow 
Who piped his way along our 
street — 
H£)w could the neighbors' children 
know 
That to her ears 'twas passing 
sweet? 

With smiles they spoke the ragged 
kilt, 
And jeered the pipes, in mirth- 
ful file; 
But, strangely moved, she heard 
the lilt 
That rallied Carrick and Argyle. 

A stroller, playing in the street, 
Half-hearted, weary, out of 
place — 

But his old measure stirred her feet, 
My baby with the Gaelic face: 

[ 41 ] 



She squared her shoulders as she 
stood 
To watch the piper 'round the 
turn — 
Nor dreamed what beat within her 
blood 
Was Robert Bruce and Ban- 
nockburn ! 



[42 ] 



ETCHING AFTER DAU- 
BIGNY 

Hushed is the note of the night- 
bird's cry- 
On moorlands where lengthen- 
ing shadows pass; 
Cold is the reach of the dull gray 

sky- 
That borders the waste where the 
spent winds die 
In fringes of rusty grass. 

None but light fingers of ghosts 
have swept 
The tangles apart for a vision of 
sea; 
Even the echoes have long-while 

slept, 
And only the lizard his watch has 
kept, 
Aglint in a vine-hung tree. 

[43 ] 



Changeless that solitude : time and 
stress 
Mark never the places by men 
untrod : 

Hidden the meanings of vast im- 
press 

Engraved on these pages of lone- 
liness . . . 
Dim lines from the Scroll of 
God. 



[ 44 ] 



OF A YOUTH PASSING 

Out of half-remembering, the pa- 
gan gods designed him, 
And meant to use a setting that 
they saved from Arcady; 
But all the sunny dream-slopes, the 
fields and silver forests 
Are hidden from the visioning 
of mortals, all but me. 

To mirror stars, they made his eyes 
like mystic pools at even, 
But gave him not the poet's 
heart he had when time be- 
gan; 
They tuned his voice to reed-notes 
beloved of boyish shepherds. 
Yet waked in him no echoes of 
the melodies of Pan. 

Sometimes, across the sunset- glow, 
I see him turning homeward, 
A dark and lonely figure in the 
sombre city street; 

[ 45 ] 



He does not guess a goat-skin 
should hang about his shoul- 
der, 
Nor miss those frisky little lambs 
that gamboled at his feet! 

Out of half-remembering, the pa- 
gan gods designed him. 
But lost some ancient loveliness 
and let the light grow dim — 
And yet I catch that old mood, and 
grieving for his blindness, 
I fare me back to Arcady, just 
because of him! 



[ 46 ] 



DELHI 

^^Red are the lips of the courtesan 
smiling, 
Black is her heart as the tint of 

her hair; 
Faithful, beware. . . 
Dawn puts an end to her hour of 
beguiling: 
Haste ye to prayerT 

Show me thy face, the bruised 
breast in these wrappings; 
Now we are here on the darken- 
ing roof, 
Of beauty give proof 
To him who hath bought thee away 
from thy trappings 
And set thee aloof. 

Dost miss the gold bells from thine 
ankles, O Dancer, 
Dost pine for the gayest bazaar 
in the Square? 

[47 ] 



Let down thy dark hair, 
And see if the stars will not give 
me mine answer: 
Child, art thou fair? 

So spent . . . when the night hath 
had scarce its beginning? 
What of thy pallor when morn- 
ing shall break? 
What odds does it make. . . 
Many there are who have played 
for my winning 
When love was the stake. 

^^Red are the lips of the courtesan 
smiling^ 
Black is her heart as the tint of 

her hair; 
Faithful J beware. . . 
Dawn puts an end to her hour of 
beguiling: 
Haste ye to prayer!'^ 



[ 48 1 



LULLABY 

J. G. H. 

The mother-bird croons to her 
babies : 
How safe is the nest in the tree! 
It swings as she sings to the tender 

brown things 
That nestle and crowd in the 
warmth of her wings . . . 
{So nestle J my darlings to me.) 

The mother-bird fears for her ba- 
bies: 
Their weeks in the tree-top are 
few. 

What way can she say that she 
wants them to stay, 

How keep them from falling or 
flying away? 
(O, darling . . . Fm fearing for 
you.) 

[49] 



The mother-bird grieves for her 
babies: 
So empty and still is the nest! 
I see in the tree what my own nest 

will be 
When you have grown strong and 
have no need of me . . . 
{But hush you, my darling, and 
rest.) 



[ 50 ] 



O CHRIST, WHO LAY IN 
MARY'S ARMS 

O Christ, Who lay in Mary's arms. 
Whose face against her face was 
pressed. 
My arms have burden light for 
Thee, 
Would lay it on Thy pitying 
breast. 

Look, Thou: these little quiet 
hands. 
These baby-eyes that could not 
see; 
Wilt warm his heart against Thy 
heart, 
And hold his frailty close to 
Thee? 

Wilt kiss the lips that could not 
know 
His mother's lips that breathe 
this prayer? — 
O take this lost lamb to Thy fold, 
And give it, Christ, a shepherd's 
care! 

[ 51 ] 



TO A CHILD 

A dream is just a little boat whose 
sails are made of sleep; 

Oh, safely may yours ever float up- 
on the starry deep, 

And (though it drift far out to sea) 

Come home to me! 

A dream is just a butterfly above a 

poppy-ring; 
Oh, may yours never flutter by 

with bruises on its wing, 
But rest upon some slender stalk 
Near where I walk! 

A dream is just a climbing rose 

against a sanded wall ; 
Oh, may yours glad the garden- 
close before its petals fall. 
And, to my lips on your pink cheek, 
Its sweetness speak! ... 
* * * 
[ 52 ] 



My boat it sailed and lost its way, 
with none to see it pass ; 

My rose was faded in a day and 
scattered on the grass . . • 

One winged thing glints the twi- 
light-blue : 

My hope for You! 



[53 ] 



THE WIND ON THE HILL- 
TOP 

The wind on the hill-top bruiseth 
and bendeth the young trees 
over; 

The old trees stand. 

So Love kisseth thee on the mouth, 
O Maiden, and layeth his hand 

But light on my year-limned brow, 
and must powerless pass me by. 

The wind on the hill-top bruiseth 
and bendeth the young trees 
over — 

Yet the trees strong-standing are 
they that quiver and sight 



[ 54 ] 



FOR A 'CELLO MELODY 

Life's a road that has no turning: 
Ah, how steep ! 

By the wayside Love's an altar : 
Pray — and weep. . . 
(But the dust from incense-burn- 
ing, none shall keep.) 

God, your weariness discerning. 
Broken hope and silent yearning, 
Gives as treasure of your earning, 
Sleep: 

Gives as measure of your earning, 
only Sleep. 



[ 55 ] 



AT THE OLD LADIES' 
HOME 

There in a row of chairs upon the 
porch 

I saw them, women alien from the 
world, 

Set in a niche to watch the world 
goby: 

A few, born saints . . . but some had 
outworn sin ; 

Sisters at last, from having done 
with life. 
Here Joan of Arc, grown past 
her soldier-dream. 

And Mariamne, spared her Her- 
od's wrath. 

Forgetting Herod, gossiped for an 
hour; 

While calm Francesca, once know- 
ing Paolo's love. 

Sat knitting peaceful in the noon- 
day sun, 

[ 56 ] 



And Nicolette, with Aucassin long 

gone, 
Made painful writing with a 

wrinkled hand. 

'^Ah, let me die," I prayed, ^'be- 
fore the glow 
Shall leave my body, and before 

my tears 
Shall buy me patience; take me 

while I feel 
The lure-of-things that blesses with 

its hurt — 
Dear God, give me not age!" (For 

I would keep 
You in my heart of hearts . . , for 

whose sad eyes 
These lines are set, O Dearest . . . 

to the last.) 

Just then, among the many faces 
there, 

I glimpsed a face most delicate and 
pale 

And very lovely with that wistful- 
ness 

In which the shadows of long sor- 
row lie ; 

[ 57 ] 



Meeting my look, she smiled, and, 
with that smile, 

Somehow the lilacs by the iron 
fence. 

The plumed grass brushing low 
across the path. 

Brought back to me an afternoon 
in May 

And a sweet garden where I some- 
times played 

When I fared forth in gingham 
pinafore: 

I saw Another (dead so many 
years. 

Her name I could not in that hour 
recall) : 

Old she had been as ashes in a jar 

She kept upon a high, old-fashion- 
ed chest 

In an old-fashioned room in her 
still house . . . 

Now I remembered with what pas- 
sionate warmth 

A cheek had once been pressed 
against my cheek. 

What frail and trembling arms had 
lifted me 

[ 58 ] 



To touch that silvery dust within 
the jar. 

Perhaps it is God's will I shall 

grow old 
And none may read beneath my 

quietness . . . 
Gardens in May, or any memory 
Of you! And yet for very shame 

tonight 
I change my prayer, and ask for 

strength to live. 



[59 ] 



ARGENTEUIL 

Heloise speaks: 

I saw a vestal sunset — 'twas the 

hour 
That marked my travail there in 

Brittany: 
So calm, so holy, like a sign from 

God 
That all my stain was washed away ; 

and I 
With this full woman's-heart with- 
in my breast 
Was comforted as is a little child, 
Smiled at . . . forgiven its brief 

trespasses. 
Then died that splendor . . . cold 

the sky, and far: 
Wrapt in the world's long shadow, 

the pure glow 
Faded before mine eyes. 
O Abelard, 

[ 60 ] 



So fades Repentance, wrapt in 

Memory! 
This time is God's, this place, all 

else is thine . . . 
Thine, for no prayer can shut these 

eyes to truth. 
No penance blot out sin like mine 

with thee. 
Here in these vigils on my tortured 

knees, 
I cry, "Make clean . . . give me 

again a sign" . . . 
Yet — for my praying lips I crave 

thy kiss, 
The thrill of thee for mine uplift- 
ed arms. 



[ 61 ] 



A PERSIAN GRAVE 

At Naishapur in Khorassan 
The drifting rose-leaves lightly fall 
Across the gray old garden-wall 
That marks the spot where you be- 
gan 
To speculate, quite unafraid — 
Those Persian roses, how they fade! 

You laughed — ^twas where today 

you lie : 
Ah, there was One who laughed 

beside. 
And brought to you the world-old 

lure, 
The while the roses bloomed and 

died 
Where now the roses bloom and die 
At Naishapur. 

At Naishapur in Khorassan 
The glow of life is in the vine: 

[ 62 ] 



Plenty there are to sing of wine ; 
Poets to ponder o'er the Plan, 
And hearts to feel the ancient fire. . . 
Though none has found that 
^Hearfs'Desire/ 

You sang — 'twas where today you 

sleep — 
Where sleeps that One whose soul 

you thrilled? 
Say, friend, does Time make 

dreaming sure? 
As over your grave the cup is filled, 
Do roses and wine old sweetness 

keep 
At Naishapur? 



[ 63 ] 



SALUTE! 

(Paul Verlaine to Aubrey 
Beardsley) 

Walking alone upon the edge of 

Sleep, 
I found the path a puzzling one 

and steep: 
Now thou art come — O Brother, 

lift thine eyes 
And say what seems it . . . hell or 

paradise? 
{Which hath a blood-red twilight 

and a black moonrise?) 



[ 64] 



AT BENI-MORA 

And once, dear heart, I prayed to 
miss the lot 

That comes of loving and of lov- 
er's loss; 

Yea, helpless, begged of Life to 
stretch me not 

Upon the cross. 

It is Life's will that sacrifice be 
mine; 

And, scourged, I wear the thorns. 
Write thou the sign. 



[ 65 ] 



FOR THE FLY-LEAF OF A 
VOLUME OF KEATS 

^^The day is gone, and all its sweets 
are gone'' — 

The long night stilled the hunger 
on thy lips. 

Too late was Fame, with healing 
finger-tips 

To smooth thy brow; but in anoth- 
er dawn 

She found thee, dear, who lay so 
spent and wan : 

Knelt there and kissed thee, drop- 
ping penitent tears, 

And breathed her vow to love thee 
through the years. 

"The day is gone, and all its sweets 
are gone" — 

Ah, couldst thou know the dark- 
ness was withdrawn! 



[ 66 ] 



FRAGMENT 

If Passion's fitful days were sweet 
to you, 
I pray you keep their sweetness 
in your heart, 
And dream awhile of joys when 
life was new . . • 
Forgetting me, who played the 
later part. 

(I sometimes think God might 

have come my way. 
Had there been aught in you to 

bid Him stay.) 



[ 67 ] 



SAVE IN HIS OWN COUN- 
TRY 

They spoke of "Failure," when the 
bravest of their kind 
First shook the country dust 
from his young feet — 
And then of "Failure," when in 

years his path did wind 
Back to their paths; nor knew that 
Fame could find 
Its old ways sweet! 



[ 68 ] 



FIAT LUX 

It seemed to us that o^er mute, un- 
seen strings 

He drew his fingers, worn and 
coarse with toil ; 

That he who knew Life's meagre- 
ness and soil 

In his last hour transcended com- 
mon things. 

Sometimes, they say, the dying im- 
pulse brings 

That harper's-motion to rude fin- 
ger-tips. 

Lays a warm smile across the cold- 
est lips. 

Frees from the voiceless clay a soul 
that sings. 

^Twas so with him. We knew the 
labored speech. 

The heavy step, the sordid, care- 
filled days; 

[ 69 ] 



Love, music, laughter, deemed be- 
yond his reach, 

Nor guessed the hurt beneath his 
uncouth ways . . . 

Till at the last Death changed the 
sullen guise. 

Gave him a harper's touch ... a 
poet's eyes. 



[ 70 ] 



THE GYPSY STARS ARE 
CAMPED 

The gypsy stars are camped around 

the moon — 
That nomads'-fire along the road 

of Night— 
And resting there before they take 

their flight, 
What lullabies the older stars must 

croon : 
Songs of the bjrways where with si- 
lent shoon 
Age-long they wander; where at 

early light 
Their caravan slips quietly from 

sight . . . 
And hides its trail across the sky at 

noon. 

That secret trail! To think where 

it began 
Or how it ends? . . . when myriad 

moon-fires glow 

[ 71 ] 



In camps at even where God's 

highroads be? 
When tribes of stars, unguessed, 

undreamed by man, 
Too far for these the earth-seen 

stars to go, 
Find trail on trail ... to deeper 

mystery? 



[ 72 ] 



SURRENDER 

Young and trusting, blithe and fair, 
I was the maid he took to wife . . . 

But bruises on my heart I wear, 
Who wedded Life. 

So reach thy lover's-arms to me — 
Burn thou my lips with eager 
breath : 

Once will I share thine ecstasy 
With thee, O Death! 



[ 73 ] 



AFTERWARD 

I did not know how short your day 
would be! 
I had you safe. My words could 
wait awhile. 
And yet . . . your eyes begged ten- 
derness of me 
Behind their smile. 

And now for you, so dark, so long, 
is night. 
I speak, but on my knees, un- 
heard, alone — 
What words were these to make a 
short day bright . . . 
If I had known! 



[ 74] 



I SEE'D YE AINCE 

I see'd ye aince on maurket-day: 
Sae bonnie was your smile, 

I gaed (tae pass ye on the brae) 
Oot o' ma road a mile. 

Your een was een that wadna see, 
But, man, ye steppit braw, 

An^ O, ye was the lad for me . . . 
Wha cam an' gaed awa'. 

Ah, dearie, sic a load is love! 

Wi' me ye had nae pairt; 
But ither maurket-days juist prove 

The breakin' o' ma hairt. 

Your een was een that wadna see, 
But licht tae mine they lent . . . 

An' O, ye was the lad for me, 
If ye had only kent! 



[ 75 ] 



"I HEARD HER WHISPER" 

I heard her whisper soft my name, 

a dream or two ago: 
She strayed adown Sleep's quiet 

path, 
And oh, the lure her nearness 

hath . . . 
Do I not know? 

I felt her kiss, light on my brow; I 
woke and she was gone^ — 

Dear God, to know which pitying 
star 

Points where the mist-hung mead- 
ows are 

That lie beyond the dawn! 



[ 76 ] 



SANCTUARY 

If I could come to you one holy 

hour 
And lay this weary head upon your 

breast, 
Or wear unseen against my heart a 

flower 
That your warm fingers had but 

lately pressed, 
God knows ... to me might come a 

dreamed-of rest: 
As, at the close, one lies amid the 

bloom. 
So my scarred soul, in last white 

garments dressed, 
Beneath pale tapers lighting all the 

gloom 
Might lie in quiet in a hallowed 

Inner Room. 



[ 77 ] 



WHEN I AM DEAD 

When I am dead, how will you 
watch 

Alone the sunset-light, 
Or heed the shining galleons' drift 

Across the path of night? 

What ships that brought our car- 
goes in 
Must pass the harbor by. 
Toward me what stars be outward 
bound 
Down sea-lanes of the sky? 

When I am dead, how will you 
meet 
The gladness of a dawn 
Come back to you from out the 
dark 
Where love and I are gone? 



[ 78 ] 



AGAIN IS IT APRIL 

Buds on the willow and sap in the 
alder, 
And hearts to their tryst at the 
close of the day: 
'Twas long-ago April when love 
and I called Her, 
Kissed in the shadows— and 
went on our way. 

Kissed in the shadows! . . . the 
thought of it follows 
The track of the years, and it 
lightens their load: 
Sweet as the breath of those fern- 
spicy hollows. 
Youth and maid meeting at bend 
of the road. 

Again is it April, though April be 
over; 
O, where do the ghosts of the 
dead Aprils go? 

[ 79 ] 



In spring-time the years find me 
always a lover — 
(And where She is waiting, 
anemones blow.) 

Buds on the willow and sap in the 
alder, 
And hearts to their tryst at the 
close of the day: 
'Twas long-ago April when love 
and I called Her, 
Kissed in the shadows — and 
went on our way. 



[ 80 ] 



VIGNETTE 

(E. L.) 

The old, old man from the Rescue 

Mission, come to sell me three 

bags of wood, 
Leaned his arms on the wide stone 

railing: ^^I'd like to rest, if you'd 

say I could." 
His dirty hands were long and 

slender; the bridge of his nose 

was fine and high ; 
His shaky voice held a rare, strange 

echo out of life that had passed 

him by. 
"Take a chair in the sun," I ans- 
wered — and saw the bruise 

above one eye. 

He asked for the piece of the morn- 
ing paper that lay, all wrinkled, 
beneath my feet ; 

He took from his pocket some ten- 

[ 81 ] 



cent glasses (tied with a string 
that was far from neat!) 

The smell of whiskey was faint, 
but certain. I looked again at 
that regal head, 

And thought of the men of gentle 
breeding, the women who made 
him, long-time dead: 

"God knows the story that lies be- 
hind him, the grave that waits 
him," my pity said. 

I stood in silence; we spoke no 

further till ribald urchins called 

out in glee, 
^^Look-a the Wood-man, the crazy 

Wood-man !" . . . He flushed and 

turned his face to me : 
"Boys will be boys . . . perhaps 

these mothers would feel like 

mine, who rebuked me when 
I mocked the tune of a strolling 

fiddler ... I think I was not 

much over ten. 
But I remembered, through much 

forgetting, and never could give 

such hurt again. . .'' 

[ 82 ] 



The old, old man from the Rescue 
Mission, come to sell me three 
bags of wood, 

Shuffled away in the pavement- 
shadows. The wares I purchas- 
ed were none too good — 

But his dirty hands were long and 
slender; the bridge of his nose 
was fine and high ; 

His shaky voice held a rare, strange 
echo out of a life that had passed 
him by. . . 

(But what can you do when they 
smell of whiskey, and have a 
bruise above one eye?) 



[ 83 ] 



DAFFODILS 

There flames the first gay daffodil 
Where winter-long the snows have 

lain: 
Who buried Love, all spent and 

still? 
There flames the first gay daffodil. 
Go, Love's alive on yonder hill, 
And yours for asking, joy and pain. 
There flames the first gay daffodil 
Where winter-long the snows have 

lain! 



[ 84 ] 



TRIOLET 

Deep in the heart of me, 
Nothing but You! 
See through the art of me- 
Deep in the heart of me, 
Find the best part of me, 
Changeless and true. 
Deep in the heart of me. 
Nothing but You! 



[ 85 ] 



A LARK WENT SINGING 

A lark went singing in the morn- 
ing glow — 

And I remembered that you could 
not know; 

And that the songs my heart had 
made for you 

Must sing themselves to silence in 
the blue. 

But in the sunset-hush there came 

again 
A clear, brave note . . . and 

Something whispered then : 
^^He hears no answer, but the 

weary lark 
Still sings, and lifts the song to 

meet the dark." 



[ 86 ] 



THE TORCH PRESS 

CEDAR RAPIDS 

IOWA 



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